Sixteen Ounce Mocha
by Satan Abraham
Summary: Abraham was really kind of regretting getting Parker this job. Modern day AU. Parkovitch, slight Bakeraham. Rated T for language.


Abraham was kind of regretting getting Parker this job.

A bit of background information – Abraham's mother owned the coffee shop. Abe himself had been helping out as long as he could punch in buttons on a cash register. When Parker had asked if he knew of anywhere where Parker could find a job, Abraham had asked his mom if she'd take him on. Parker had been weirdly polite until Abraham's mother had caved.

And now, as Abraham was taking his break in the little loft above the shop, he could see none other than Gary Barkovitch walking up, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, walking quickly.

"Shit," Abraham muttered, once again a bit amused with how deep his voice had gotten. "This isn't going to end well."

Even though it wasn't going to end well, Abraham neglected to shove Parker into the storage room and take Barkovitch's order himself, even though Barkovitch came in at least once a week and Abraham knew his order by heart. Sixteen ounce mocha and maybe a peanut butter cookie. This interaction might get Parker fired, but it would be funny.

Barkovitch wasn't looking at who was serving him and thank God for that. While interactions between Abraham and Barkovitch were chilly and Baker and Barkovitch were almost normal sometimes (Barkovitch sometimes even tipped Baker), an interaction between Parker and Barkovitch would be positively explosive.

"Sixteen ounce mocha and…" Barkovitch glanced at the case with the baked goods/desserts. "One of those things."

He poked at a nanaimo bar. Parker raised an eyebrow. "One of 'those things'?"

Barkovitch looked up and finally saw who was behind the counter. Abraham edged closer so that he could hear better. By now he was basically just standing right beside Barkovitch so that he could hear every word that was being said. Neither Barkovitch nor Parker looked at him.

"Great," Barkovitch muttered. "You."

"What's so wrong with me?" Parker asked. His voice was raising, and he was probably going to start swearing at Barkovitch any second now. Thank God there weren't any customers at the moment.

"What _isn't _wrong with you?" Barkovitch replied. He was standing up taller, almost on his tip-toes, hands on the counter. He was nearly pushing himself up. "Just shut up and make me my coffee!"

"_Fuck off!"_

"I'm just trying to get some coffee so that I won't be asleep when I go to school or work!" Barkovitch said. His voice had risen as well. "And it's not a girl job like yours!"

Parker grabbed onto the collar of Barkovitch's jacket and pulled him close enough to kiss if he so chose or if Abraham reached out and pushed their heads together. Barkovitch's feet were nearly lifting off the floor.

"It's _not _a _girl _job," Parker snarled. "Fuck, Abe and Baker work here too!"

Barkovitch wriggled, his feet kicking the front of the counter like a little kid kicking the back of his parent's seat in the car. "Let go," he said. "And make- me- my- coffee!"

Each word was punctuated by a kick to the counter. Parker glared at Barkovitch for a little bit longer, then dropped him and moved over to make his coffee. Abraham leaned over to make sure that he was doing it right. As far as he knew, Parker had never made a mocha on his own before. Baker had always been there to help; Baker's specialty was the almost sickly sweet coffees and drinks – along with the mochas, he made cappuccinos, steamers, and those cold things with the syrup. The ones with the carbonated soda.

Eventually, Parker slammed the mocha and Nanaimo bar down on the counter, some of the coffee slopping over the side of the cup. "Seven thirty-nine," Parker said, putting one of the little caps on the coffee cup. Barkovitch shoved a ten into Parker's hand.

Both of them made a big deal over the change, Parker slamming it down onto the counter and sending a penny skidding under a table. Barkovitch shoved the money in into his pocket, took his coffee and Nanaimo bar and stalked out.

"You two have more sexual tension than anyone else I know," Abraham said. Parker hit him on the back of the head and Abraham moved away, grinning. Baker entered the shop then, face red from the cold.

"What's going on?"

* * *

Barkovitch continued to come in every morning, and usually during Parker's shifts. They continued to yell and swear at each other. Barkovitch never tipped Parker and Parker always muttered about this for hours afterward. Abraham pointed out that Barkovitch didn't even tip _him, _but then Parker told him to, quote, 'shut the fuck up.'

One day, in the last few hours of the shop being open, Barkovitch stumbled in, weighed down by his backpack. He set it down at one of the tables with high chairs and walked over to the counter. Thankfully, Baker was working.

"Schoolwork?" Baker asked. Barkovitch looked startled, then nodded.

"People are at my house," was all he said. He then proceeded to order dinner along with his mocha and peanut butter cookie.

"If you want to wait on the cookie there are a few coming out of the oven in a few minutes," Baker suggested as he made Barkovitch's wrap. Barkovitch withdrew his hand from the cookie jar, nodded, and grabbed his food. He worked on his homework as he ate – he must have been in one of his last years of college; he wasn't much younger than Abe. Abraham had been going to be teacher, and had been planning on eventually working his way up to Principal. He was currently looking around for a job.

He briefly wondered what Barkovitch's major was, then dismissed it. It didn't really matter.

Parker came out of the back room then, hands full of peanut butter cookies. He didn't see Barkovitch – good thing, too – and began dropping the cookies in the jar.

"You should take one over to him," Baker suggested as he looked up from his own homework. Baker had a load of early classes – the last one he ever took ended at two, but usually he was done by noon – and he usually worked one or two-thirty to closing time, which was seven. He wasn't sure what he was going to do, and that was okay because his dad worked at the college and Baker got free college 'til he was twenty-five. He had three years left.

Parker glanced over, saw Barkovitch, and grimaced. "Why's that little shit here?" he asked. "I already had to deal with him this morning. 'Sixteen ounce mocha and one of those things.' I've told him what 'those things' are twenty-fucking-million times."

Barkovitch didn't look up. He must have been listening to music or something. Abraham looked closer. Yep. Bright green headphones. _Nice._

"He's not so bad," Baker said and pulled a five out of the tip jar. "He even tipped me."

"That's because you're nice to him," Abraham said, jumping into the conversation. He was on a break again.

"Shut up Abe. Aren't you supposed to be working?" Parker said. Abraham looked at the clock.

"I'm on my break."

"You've been on your break for the last half hour," Baker said. "And the half hour before that, and the half –"

"Shut up."

* * *

That Saturday, Barkovitch came in with a load of books and some blond. The blond was carrying a similar load of books and the two ordered lunch. Abraham was once again 'on his break' and talking to Parker, who was making Barkovitch's mocha and Blondie's Italian Soda – _that's _what the bubbly syrupy things were called.

"Blondie is wearing purple pants. D'you think Barkovitch's queer?" Abraham asked, watching as the two pulled out thick Psychology textbooks and notebooks.

"Why?" Parker asked. "Thinkin' of asking him out?"

"Nah, I've got Baker," Abraham said. Baker looked up at the sound of his name and Abraham winked at him. Baker went stereotype-gay and gave him a little wave. "I mean, if he is, your blatant sexual tension will turn into something."

"Shut the fuck up. There is nothing between us," Parker said. Abe persisted.

"But there _could _be."

"No," Parker said. He wiped his hands off on a towel and began to head for the table. "I'll show you there's nothing."

With that, he grabbed onto Barkovitch's head and kissed him. Abraham and Baker, who dropped a cup in his shock, gaped. Parker let go of Barkovitch's face and stumbled back over to the counter.

"See," he said. "Nothing. I need a break."

"You can't have a break yet," Abraham informed him. "I'm on break-"

"You shut up. You're on break more than you work."

"Yeah, but my mom owns the place. I can afford to slack off. All I have to do is look busy when she comes in. And she said she might hand over the place to me, 'cause they've been thinking about moving."

"Would you really give up the chance to terrify children to own a coffee shop, though?" Baker asked. He'd finished sweeping up the broken glass. Parker muttered something and disappeared into the storeroom. "You've got the voice to terrify."

"Ah, we can do shit on Halloween," Abraham said. "I'll be some creep with a deep voice."

"Sounds good," Baker said. Abraham glanced at the table that had previously seated Barkovitch and Blondie. Now it was just Blondie.

"Huh," Abraham said. "Wonder where Barkovitch went."

They stood in silence for a few more minutes before they heard a _thud! _from one of the back rooms.

"Christ, has Collie gone psycho?" Abraham muttered, jumping down the last three steps and heading for the noise.

Once he opened the door and realized what, exactly, had made that noise he grinned. He'd called it. Barkovitch and Parker were pressed up against a wall. Barkovitch, whose back was to the wall, saw them.

"Parker," he said, his voice a strangled little cry. He jabbed Parker's side. Parker's head lifted from Barkovitch's neck and he looked around.

"Blatant! Sexual! Tension!" Abraham cried. He ran off. Parker was going to be pissed and would probably hurt him if he stuck around any longer.


End file.
